


The unproductive mind of a genius

by criminalinwestwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Character Death, Gore, Murder, paralysation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/criminalinwestwood/pseuds/criminalinwestwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small drabble, Jim has become despondent, detached from his work and ultimately bored. Written from Sebastian's POV. This is not a slash fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The unproductive mind of a genius

            He couldn’t do it any other way, he needed to speak, needed to know he was in control, needed to be able to enjoy the moment all light left Jim’s eyes; it was a show after all. Jim had seemed lost, the empire was starting to fall in his lack of interest, loose ends left in the open, brazen bodies laid bare for the world to see; clients left waiting in meetings and rogue mercenaries allowed to continue their proceedings under the notorious name.

Over the years Sebastian became established as the right hand man to the empire, he was to be feared and respected. Originally sniggers travelled with his name, at first he was _the boss’ pet,_ but through advocating the devil he became the shade behind the man; soon tales of the infamous Moriarty were accompanied by another character, one who’s blazing smile would be the last thing you could be blessed to see before he crushed you with his bare hands, leaving you to die as scum beneath his feet— _Well, that’s the rumour at least._

Moran seemed to run the show now, through Jim’s lack of interest he found himself to be the conductor, however he still operated to Jim’s plans, finding himself reprimanded if he took initiative; Jim had become a detached burden.

_And so we find ourselves here._

Jim stood at the window of the office, back to Moran, ashen fingers spread across the pane he stared; more so at the pane itself than what lay beyond it. Moran approached as if to embrace—abandoning his cigarette to lay edged on the table—a flattened palm caressing the man’s tail bone, a tactical aim, lightly tracing fingertips gracing the ridges of his spine, mentally noting each point, this was the trust he had earned. Or perhaps the reason for such allowance merely came from Jim’s apathy. All it would take was one well placed blade. Moran’s tracing palm travelled around the body, the plane of Jim’s stomach lay hot under the caress; _he would miss the warmth_.

The caressing hand tensed now to brace the body, fingers coiling against abdominals, he felt it momentarily turn rigid in distrust, an audible brush of fabric as a frantic hand moved to grasp against the bracing fingers. The tapered blade was forced into the base of the spinal cord, a resounding crack of the separating vertebrae could be heard; the knife was removed as quickly as it had been placed, supporting hand going limp to allow the body to fall.

Paralysed, Jim fell onto his front, his body seemed to pulse and arch in a wave of pain, choking on the inevitable bark of a laugh he could never seem to contain.  _Fucking weirdo._ His body fell to rest with his face twisted against the boards of the floor, a small pool of blood forming at the small of his back, running through the ripped fibres of his shirt. Jim’s mouth lay slack, he gasped through his speech, though he reigned it is as much as possible; that much was evident, he spoke hatefully. “I expected more of you, you know. Now this, this is just— _cowardly—”_ He’s silenced by the placement of Moran’s boot against his throat and shakes slightly under the pressure, probably in shock;  _poor little lamb,_ Moran grins.

"Tsk tsk, hush now, kitten. You don’t matter much any more, so there’s no point in any of that." Moran purrs as he moves to bind Jim’s hands behind his back, granted he couldn’t put up much resistance anyway; but the little bastard could leave his mark if he found a weapon, _spiteful little shit_.

The unprotesting body is lifted, Moran’s blood tainted fingers cast the shirt with his impression about the collar, heels are left to drag and crash noisily in the wake of their travel, but not before the previously abandoned cigarette is retrieved to hang between tightened lips, a greyed plume left to replicate his path. Small grunts are heard from Jim’s lilting form, but otherwise the journey is peaceful. 

He drags Jim to the loading dock, watchful eyes follow him discreetly to his destination, curious but wary. He stands above the workers on a metal platform, holed and reminiscent to a fire escape. He poses Jim on his knees, held in place by the large hand fisted into his locks, he looks distant again, unsatisfying. Moran addresses the workers with a booming voice and a prominent smile, “Consider yourself under new management.” He uses his hold on Jim to crash the man’s face into the safety railing as if to punctuate his point, not that he seems to care.

Moran crouches near the man, placing his face close to Jim’s, allowing him to whisper into his ear, which is painted by the bloody trail that stemmed from the blow. “ _Long live the king, ey Jim_?” Sebastian mocks, voice low and intimate, his lips almost grace the ear.  Jim replies bereft of emotion, he’s looking away, ” _Long live the king, Bastian.”_

Sebastian drives his knife into the man’s throat, tearing into muscle as he pulls it through flesh, the motion fast and exuberant. Blood sprays from the wound before it begins to gush and froth from the wound and the man’s mouth in turn. Jim chokes on it a while before being allowed to fall from the platform, face painted in his own blood; landing in a sickened heap of twisted limbs onto the loading floor.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. A terrible end to a character that deserved so much more.


End file.
